


the feelings that we hide.

by katarama



Series: drive. [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Collars, Dom/sub, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mirror Sex, Polyamory, Road Trips, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 04:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5814418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fine,” Stiles sulks, shoving the entire rest of his pastry into his mouth.  “You can’t say I didn’t try to do something here, I totally made the effort.  I was more than willing to go get you a hurricane or a hand grenade or something so you could get drunk and... let some shit out.  While we’re here.”</p><p>“I can’t get drunk anyway, dude,” Scott reminds him, and Stiles’ face falls.  “But we can go back to the room, when we’re done here.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the feelings that we hide.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rjosettes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjosettes/gifts), [alexenglish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/gifts).



> I just went to New Orleans and stayed there for a week, so I decided to revisit this 'verse. This is an outtake to the New Orleans scene of swerving on the 405., fleshing out more of what happened on the second day they're there.

“Are you sure we can’t go to Bourbon Street?” Stiles asks.  

He’s sitting at the small, round table in the metal chair across from Scott, powdered sugar spilled down the front of his shirt.  Scott wants to try to reach over and brush some of it off, but he knows that it’s hopeless; Stiles’ shirt was dark blue, and he waited far too long to brush it off himself.  Scott would have thought that Stiles would have learned from the night before, when they went to Café du Monde the first time and Scott’s jeans met the same fate, but apparently not.

“We’re not legal,” Scott reminds him after finishing up the second beignet on his plate.  “I know you think that you can’t get away with it back in Beacon Hills just because your dad’s the sheriff, but I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason you haven’t been nailed for using a shitty fake.”

“We’re in _New Orleans_ ,” Stiles emphasizes, waving a half-eaten beignet around and spilling more powdered sugar down his sleeve.  “They probably don’t even check IDs!”

“I’m not getting arrested halfway across the country,” Scott insists, and Stiles opens his mouth to protest.  He manages a, “Braeden could-” before Scott cuts him off.

“I’m not getting arrested for underage drinking in New Orleans,” Scott says, as firmly as he can manage.  “You’re a terrible liar and neither of our parents can take the time off to come down here and get us.”

“Fine,” Stiles sulks, shoving the entire rest of his pastry into his mouth.  “You can’t say I didn’t try to do something here, I totally made the effort.  I was more than willing to go get you a hurricane or a hand grenade or something so you could get drunk and... let some shit out.  While we’re here.”

“I can’t get drunk anyway, dude,” Scott reminds him, and Stiles’ face falls.  “But we can go back to the room, when we’re done with these.”

“You sure?” Stiles asks.  “If you started doing this with Allison…”

Scott understands Stiles’ concern.  Allison’s been hanging heavy in the air and in Scott’s heart the entire time they’ve been in New Orleans.  They’ve avoided talking about it, beyond that moment when it clicked for Stiles, but that doesn’t mean that the sense of loss hasn’t been there.  Scott never really had the time to grieve.  None of them did.  And now, he’s walking around in this city he’s never seen, whispers of French in his ear and fleurs de lis dragging him back to her.  

They both know what will happen when they go back to the room.  They both know that Scott’s clothes will be off and Stiles’ hands will be fastening the collar around Scott’s neck.  They both know that Scott’s mind will wander to the necklace tucked away in Stiles’ bag, to the vivid memories of this with Allison.  Of the first time he felt himself dip, on a night he and Allison stole for themselves while Scott’s mom worked the late shift, Allison kissing him until his lips were numb and his whole body sagged, feeling weightless where he wasn’t pressed against her.  Of being laid out on the bed for her, the pendant of the necklace resting in the center of his chest, her fingers twining with his floppy hair, gentle tugs and scritches against his scalp.  

He never wore the necklace when she pulled his face towards her cunt and he ate her out until they both had tears in their eyes, or when she used her vibrator on his cock, just to let him feel the vibrations for himself, or when she rode him into the bed.  But it only made it harder when they split, when Scott lost both at once, and then when she passed, and all the hope of _someday_  that he held close to his chest disappeared.

“I’m sure,” Scott says.  “I think it might be good.  It feels like… like maybe you’d both be there for me, here.”

“I think maybe that ghost tour just got to you, a little bit, dude,” Stiles says, “but if you’re sure, I’m not gonna complain.”

* * *

 

They walk across Canal Street, waiting for the streetcar to pass in the middle so they can run against the sign to get to the other side of the street.  Stiles stops to make yet another comment about how he can’t believe there are palm trees, and Scott tugs his arm to keep him from getting run over by the car that seems to have no intention of stopping.

The motel is reasonably priced, which they’ve been assured is only because of the fact that it’s nowhere near Mardi Gras.  It’s bigger than some of the other places they’ve stayed, though, and it’s far enough away from the main strip that there are no bright lights and loud noises.  At least, no loud noises besides the people in the room next to them, who Scott can hear distinctly through the walls.

“You’re sure you want the collar tonight,” Stiles checks, one last time, as he moves towards his bag.

“Yeah,” Scott says.  “Just give me a second.”

He goes to the bathroom and strips, throws his clothes on the floor.  He’ll have to remember not to trip over them in the morning, and to pack them up into his suitcase before they leave, but he isn’t really concerned about it.  He washes his face and brushes his teeth, checking them in the mirror once he’s done.  He looks at his reflection for a moment, and he’s struck by just how much he’s changed in the last couple of years.  His hair is shorter.  He has abs.  Multiple abs, as Stiles likes to point out when he’s feeling surly.  He’s slightly taller, though not much.

And there’s black bands around his biceps now that weren’t there before, hard-earned from a long summer and from a blowtorch to the arm.  “Be your own anchor,” his mom had said, and he’d tried.  He’d turned his tattoo into something more solid, something he could hold onto and be proud of himself.  A sign that even through loss, he hadn’t lost himself, and he had himself to rely on.  But he isn’t just relying on himself, anymore.  Alone, everything was too heavy to hold, and he’s finding his own way of letting someone else take that weight off his shoulders.

He can see marks that Stiles left, dark across his neck, below where his collar sits.

“You okay in there?” Stiles asks, knocking on the door.  “If you’re getting started without me, I swear to-”

Scott opens the door.  “Yeah, I’m good.  Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Checking yourself out in the mirror?  Because I, uh.  Totally can help you out with that, we can mirror check you out together.” Stiles asks.  The collar’s in his hands, dangled down from the buckle between Stiles’ hands.  Scott doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the way Stiles holds it so casually, like it isn’t something sacred.  

“Nah,” Scott says.  “Just getting ready.”

“Ready as in…?” Stiles’ hand tentatively brushes down Scott’s back, runs down to the curve of Scott’s ass.

“Hadn’t gotten there yet, and you like doing that bit, anyway.”

“I do,” Stiles agrees.  “I was actually thinking maybe that’s all we do tonight.  Since things have been kinda intense the last few days.  I could get my fingers in you and maybe blow you?”  His hand dips down lower, his index finger running a ring around Scott’s hole, and Scott can already feel himself melting back into Stiles’ arms.

“Yeah.  That sounds good,” Scott tells him, and Stiles’ hand pulls away.

“Collar, first.”

Scott expects Stiles to lead him back to the bedroom, to get him to sit down on the bed while he puts Scott’s collar on.  Instead, Stiles does it right there in the bathroom, Stiles guiding Scott back against the bathroom counter as he presses the leather against the back of Scott’s neck, bringing it together up front and fastening it.  It’s still intense for Scott, though he knows that will lessen the more he gets used to having this again.  There will come a time where, if he doesn’t lose this, the collar around his neck will be the beginning of the lightheaded feeling, instead of the halfway point.  

That thought lets the faintest tendril of doubt creep in, undermining the sense of letting go.  Scott’s lost this before.  He doesn’t know that Stiles will want to do this with him forever, or even if Stiles will want to do this with him when they’re home, when they’ve washed the road out of their clothes and settled back into daily life.

“Hey,” Stiles says.  “Turn around for me.”

Scott lets Stiles’ hands rest on his waist, turning him slowly to face the long bathroom mirror.  Stiles’ hands look huge and pale against Scott’s skin, Stiles’ body looking and feeling bigger than it ever has before as he wraps himself around Scott.  Scott wonders if Stiles was always that big, or if he’s just never seen him this way before, with Stiles fully clothed where Scott’s naked and collared.  

“What do you see?” Stiles asks.

“A tall dork,” comes from Scott’s mouth on instinct, a joke to try and ease the insecurity that’s eating at him, and to diffuse the fact that Scott doesn’t know what answer Stiles is looking for.  He knows what he gave isn’t the right one, but he doesn’t know what is.

“A tall, handsome, and charming Stiles,” Stiles corrects.  “Try again, though.”

“I…” Scott starts.  He can see his own brows furrow, and Stiles pulls him in closer, Stiles’ front a warm comfort against his back.  “You’re holding me.”  Scott knows that much, can solidly convey that.  “And I’m wearing your collar.”

“Mmhmm.” Stiles presses a noisy kiss into the collar, a loud smack that Scott can hear, but can only feel in the pressure of the collar against the back of his neck.  “You’re wearing my marks and my collar.”

“I’ve never seen myself in the collar,” Scott tells him.  It should be jarring, the strip of darkness on his neck that isn’t usually there, the glint of the metal from the buckle.  It’s more settling than feeling it, though, actually seeing it there, and thinking of it as Stiles’.  As himself as Stiles’, while it’s fastened there.  

“It looks good on you.  The hickeys look pretty great, too, but the collar really…  I like it there.”  Stiles moves one of his arms from around Scott and moves it under the collar, tracing the skin where the collar’s edges press.  “I like seeing that you’re mine.  I don’t like taking it off.”

“I don’t want you to take it off.  I don’t.”  Scott feels ashamed of the desperation bubbling up in his gut over the implication that Stiles might take it off and just leave him there.  He knows, logically, that it can’t stay there forever.  But he hates the thought of it, of being left with his neck empty and bare, of Stiles sleeping in his bed next to him and not wanting him, of Stiles leaving him and deciding that this isn’t something he gets anymore.  He knows, logically, that it’s probably just the thoughts of Allison that are making him so intensely insecure about the idea that Stiles might be able to walk away from this and leave Scott stranded, about the idea that this isn’t something Stiles needs the way Scott does, and that he can just quit whenever.  But he isn’t exactly wrapped up in logic, and his stomach churns, and he feels a little bit sick, and everything is fuzzy in a way that’s verging on unpleasant until Stiles’ voice cuts through the noise in his head.

“Hey, woah, no.  I’m not taking it off anytime soon,” Stiles says, alarmed.  “I don’t want to take it off at all.  I mean, I’m gonna have to at some point, because I think that your mom would look at you funny if you walked around wearing a collar all the time, and I’m actually pretty positive it’s not safe for you to drive with it on, and I want you and my jeep to be safe, but.”

All the rambling isn’t helping, though Scott knows Stiles is trying.  It’s only drawing more attention to the idea Scott doesn’t want, only sending Scott spiralling down further.  “Please,” he says, his voice wrecked.  “Please, don’t stop wanting me.”

It’s not a fair thing to ask, by any means.  Scott isn’t even sure it’s something Stiles can promise.  But it sends Stiles skidding to a halt, which is what Scott needs.  Part of what Scott needs, at least.

“Scott,” he says quietly, his hand brushing Scott’s side.  “I’ve wanted you since we were kids.  Since I was old enough to know what wanting someone _meant_.  I didn’t know about… about any of this.  About werewolves or nogitsunes, or… collars.  Or subbing.  But I knew I wanted you.  Why do you think I got so bitter when you started dating Allison?  Or when you stopped spending all your time with just me?  I know better, now, I know that you dating someone doesn’t mean there’s not space for me.  I started dating Malia, and it didn’t make me want you any less.  I don’t want to give this up, now that I have it, now I know that I can have you this way.  That you’ll let me have you this way.”

His words soothe Scott’s frayed nerves enough that Scott can get air into his lungs, can breath steadily again, enough that some of the heaviness in Scott’s chest lifts.  “I would.  I’m yours as long as you want me,” he says, knowing the intensity of what he’s offering, knowing that it’s only heightened by Stiles’ collar on his neck.  He means it.  He means every word of it.

“I know.  And I can’t see myself wanting to give you up.  See how good you look when you’re mine?”

“Yeah,” Scott says.  He takes a few deep breaths and lets Stiles’ words sink in, lets all of his reassurances bring back the comfortable kind of fog, the kind that Scott found in Nashville, that left Scott loose and relaxed the entire car ride to New Orleans.  

“Actually.  Do you still want me to blow you?” Stiles asks.  “Can you handle that right now?”

“Yes,” Scott says immediately.  “Please.”

“I want you to watch yourself, when I get my fingers inside you,” Stiles says into Scott’s ear, making shivers go down his back.  “I want you to see the way you look when I make you mine.”

“I’m already yours.”

Stiles gently moves Scott away from the bathroom counter so there’s space for him, and kisses Scott, hard.  “Yeah, you are,” he says, “and now I want you to see it.”

Stiles sinks to his knees, and Scott’s instinct is to look down and watch him, to see the way Stiles’ eyes zero in on his cock.  Scott gets distracted with the way Stiles looks when he’s pulling a packet of lube from his jeans pocket, smearing its contents all over his fingers and spreading Scott’s legs.

“Hey,” Stiles says, nudging Scott’s thigh.  “Aren’t you supposed to be watching someone else?”

“Yes, Stiles,” Scott says, and his eyes go back to the mirror.

He watches his face as Stiles’ fingers dip inside, slide in easily from all the sex they’ve been having in the last few days.  He watches even as his thighs shake, watches as his face twists when Stiles finds his prostate and rubs, as his hands reach over Stiles’ head to grip the counter so he can keep his balance.  He watches his cheeks grow pink when Stiles finally gets his mouth on his dick, his arms shaking because all he wants to do is to melt into Stiles, to fold over onto him or to fuck into his mouth.  He watches as sweat beads on his skin, hot under his collar, as Stiles takes him down deep into his throat, practiced in a way that makes Scott absently wonder, in the very back of his head, what Stiles and Malia do to give Stiles that kind of experience.  He watches when all he wants to do is let his eyes slip closed, to tumble down into the feeling of Stiles’ warm, hot mouth around him and to never resurface, to linger in the feeling of Stiles’ fingers filling him up at the same time.  

All the sensation is overwhelming, when he has his collar on, when he’s trying so hard to be good and to follow Stiles’ instructions.  The backdrop urge to come gives way to need, his balls heavy and his gut tight, his moans loud enough he would normally be embarrassed.  It’s hard to be embarrassed now, when Stiles is urging him louder, when he doesn’t have parents to be quiet for and when he knows that feeling this good is something he can let himself have.

He’s relieved when Stiles finally pulls his mouth off and tells him that he can come.  Stiles wraps his lips around the head of Scott’s dick until Scott spurts into his mouth, Scott’s arms finally buckling, giving out after holding him still and steady for so long.  It feels like more of a workout than lacrosse practice, but he can’t feel any of the pain or soreness he knows will come.  He lets his eyes close, not needing to keep them open anymore now that he’s seen his entire face go slack with pleasure from Stiles’ hands, Stiles’ mouth.

“Fuck, Scott,” Stiles says when he sees Scott’s face.  He spends a moment just looking, his gaze sliding from the collar up to Scott’s face.  He hedges his way out from under Scott and stands up, rubbing his knees and then sliding his arm around Scott.  “How do you feel?”

“Good,” Scott says sluggishly, the words having trouble finding their way to his mouth.  He feels amazing, like everything he needed before he finally has.  

Stiles rubs gently at his arms, checking to make sure that Scott didn’t overdo anything holding himself up.  It feels nice, having Stiles touching him this way, soothing, gentle motions.  “We’re gonna move to bed, so I can hold you,” Stiles says.  “How does that sound?”

“Good,” Scott repeats, and Stiles laughs.  

Stiles does take the collar off Scott that night, before they go to bed.  Scott still doesn’t really want it off, but it doesn’t cause the crippling anxiety that the idea of it did before.  Not with Stiles absently sucking a new bruise into his neck as he starts to doze, because the other bruises were fading, and Stiles doesn’t want Scott to stop feeling owned.  Not with Stiles telling him he was good, that Stiles is proud of Scott for doing just what he was told.  Not with Stiles still wrapped around him when he wakes up the next morning.

Scott is embarrassed about the way he reacted when he was wearing the collar, and he tries to apologize when they’re back on the road again.  He has a whole speech ready, so he can explain a small piece of what was going on in his head, because he knows that from the outside his reaction probably seemed more like an overreaction.  He doesn’t want Stiles to be so freaked out that he never wants to do anything with Scott again.

“You were fine,” Stiles says, though.  “New Orleans was a lot, but you did good.”

When they leave, Scott really isn’t sorry.  But he also doesn’t regret going.  He’s still a bit of a jumble, emotionally, and he doesn’t feel like what happened with Stiles really _fixed_  anything, or made thinking about Allison easier.

It did cement some things Scott was worried about with Stiles, though, even if in a very short-term way, and it got Scott thinking about some things that he hadn’t really been in a good enough place to deal with before.

That’s progress, he decides, and it’s good enough for now.

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr [here](sleepy-skittles.tumblr.com).


End file.
